


self-portrait

by cirrus (themorninglark)



Series: Sportsfest 2018 [31]
Category: Free!
Genre: M/M, POV Second Person, Selfcest, Sportsfest 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-22 03:32:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15572808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themorninglark/pseuds/cirrus
Summary: You hear his laughter, bright and golden ripening into autumn. His arms drape across your shoulders.Hey.Most likely to encourage his younger self: Kirishima Natsuya





	self-portrait

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Sportsfest 2018 Bonus Round 3: Superlatives | [originally posted here](https://sportsfest.dreamwidth.org/10320.html?thread=1718352#cmt1718352)

You are waist deep in the pool and the ripples are a warm echo. You don’t hear him coming, not because you are not paying attention but because this rhythm is natural to you as breathing, that push and pull at your back carving a path through the water, and so he catches you by surprise and puts his hands over your eyes. You hear his laughter, bright and golden ripening into autumn. His arms drape across your shoulders. _Hey._ He’s shorter than you are now, just by an inch, but that never stopped him from reaching.

You remember what you once wished for your brother, what you wanted for him more than anything else. He calls you once a week now from Sacramento. California is a big state, the scale of it beyond anything you had imagined when you still lived in Japan, but you like it. You like all this space and the miles and miles of coastline. Where the sea meets the shore, he waits for you, jacket flapping in the wind. He asks if your brother found friends. He asks if your brother found love. You remind him that you have always loved him. _I’m such an idiot,_ he mutters, as he scuffs his bare feet into the sand and kicks at the tide, and you smile and clap him on the back and say, _that won’t change, but it’s okay._ He looks at you and his eyes are the colour of the blazing sunset. You grab him by the wrist and lead him into the water.

There’s only one good curry restaurant in town and you want to share it with him. You want to order the highest spice level on the menu and eat till your throat is on fire and you’re thirsting for days. So you order a giant takeaway portion and bring it to the swimming club and if anyone asks, you’ll pretend you can’t read the _no food and drink_ sign, because your best friend is not here to tell you to behave and you know he’ll play along. You sit with your legs dangling over the edge of the pool, bumping ankles. You don’t tell him when he gets curry all over his mouth. You want to see him lick it off himself, like you always do.

Once, your best friend took you to an art exhibition. You complained that all the squares of colour looked the same, that you could not tell what this melting swath of lemon yellow was meant to be; he laughed and said _art doesn’t have to look just like real life. That’s what makes it beautiful._ You think you get it now. You are at the beach and the face that looks back at you now is you and not you. He is painted bold and brash and he looks different from every angle, but the whole of the boy is real. The whole of the boy is larger than life. His fingers trace the curve of your jawline and his grin is wrapping itself round your heart and squeezing, squeezing recklessly, for you’ve never known restraint and still don’t, and you remember a picture that caught your eye, a self-portrait with abstract shapes and lips half-parted.


End file.
